...and this is for you...

Assalamualaikum and peace be upon you ...

Twilight between Day of the Terribles and the Blithe,

21st dawn of the Time of Healing,

Year of the Ignis Mialis.

5th month of the second year of being a slave to a slave ...

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oo(O)oo

The Poet who sat at the Gates of Hell

(a dedication for MA and her broods whose two last posts has greatly touched me and Melord Abah de la Count who is in a veruy long silenceand My Akh Master Wailer whom I hope to be smiling againand also to all the parents and children)

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oo(O)oo

"What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?"

Shakespere’s Hamlet.

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oo(O)oo

"Ha ha ha," laugh the little boy at the statue of a naked man sitting in a thinking pose.

"Ha ha ha ... the model for this oxidized sculpture must be one shameless dude! Ha ha ha ..." said the boy laughing cheerfully to his father.

The man, late in to his thirties, smiled lovingly at his sweet sweet son.

"There's a tale made of tales behind this eternal body, but I don't think you'd wanna hear it kiddo, big kids like you would never want to hear such boring tales" the man teases his boy with a smile.

Raising an eye brow, sporting a spout that marks a child with a scorned ego, "Sez who?!" retorts the red cheeked boy, a bit annoyed, to his father,"Tales are fun, it'll fills up time since there's nothing else to do in our long trip. You sholudn't have said that I don't like tales, that's sooooo very stone aged of you Papa!"

"Ha ha ha ..." laughed the man at the remarks by the light of his heart,"okay, okay lil' dude, I will tell you the tales of The Poet who sat at the Gates of Hell, not in the ways that it is written, but in the manner it is forgotten."

Both father and child walk to a nearby sidewalk cafe. They sat and ordered their drinks and a hefty set of munchies, "well theres something that would occupy my mind while hearing papa's boring tales. Hope there'd be a chicka or two passing down this way too...heheheh," slyly silently and with a sinister smile the child thougt.

And slyly, silently with saintly smile prayed the father's heart,"one day this dear child of mind will grow up with a filled tummy and a full mind."

Drank and ate they do, and went to the loo too before the stroy to be told is told with no blue.

There tale begun with a note of question.

Why must a man sat in such a position, with an exposed loin as if he is a pauper with a songle coin.

He is a poet, of which a tell tale sign of a man with great wisdom. Muscular and well sculptured marking great health and of great wealth.

So why must he sat in such a position?

None could answer this 'cept for the man who made The Poet who sat at the Gates of Hell his son.

And none could answer this 'cept for the the statue who is the son.

"Or so we thought for the countless ages that have run," the father said to his young son.

"The statue," he continued his tale, "is the work of a meastro who wish that he could live for eternity".

But, as he is human, he realised that it is not a possibility for anyone to live life that long.

"And son, eternity is a very long period," epxlained the father.

To live life that long, one should have a great amount of patience, a good taste of happiness, a huge portion of love and, a citadel of dexterity to maneuver between the winding roots of despair and sadness.

For quite a long while the maestro ponder and wonder and tought of this.

Until who day, a strock of enlightenment struck him.

"He knew, to live for eternity, he could never be in this mortal body that he is in now," explained the thirty something dashind dad to his cute cuddly kid.

"But this enlightment is by no means straight forword," he continued making that cute cuddly kid of his lean forward in much interest and ask:"how so?"

"No one could tranfers thenself from one body to another, silly boy, that only happen in horror thrillers - and that reminds me to put cut you back on those long hours of tv," answered the adult to the adolescent.

"Oooo no no no ... there's no way that would happen ... I'm telling mom about this," the son tries to bargain.

"Hmmm... do that and the story ends here," counter bargained the father knowingly that his son interest in it would make him willing to loose anything sacrifiable privilages that he has.

"Grrrrrr... you are mean papa... okay you win. But don't think for a second that this would go unforgetten," replied the son with a sweet smile.

"No matter, a win is still a win no matter how small," says the father with an equally sweet smile.

"Now, lets get back to the tale shall we?" asked the father,"Yay!" respond the son.

A man is no maestro if he lack the ability to seek, sieve and synthesize the knowledge that he has gain.

Using that qualities of a meastro, he managed to find a way to live eternally.

"All I need is a replica of myself, not of my shape, but of the experience, thoughts, knowledge, believes and the spirit that I have.

"A replica that also has the ability and qualities of a thinking person so that he would grow inner and outer bodily, and in time, past it trough to another replica," the maestro concluded his search.

The father,paused for a moment and look at the widening eye of his son, seeing a growing interest in the story that he is telling.

"Want another scoop of ice cream kiddo," asked the before continuing telling the tale.

"Yup," answered the son short.

"With that understanding of what he should do, the maestro began to work on his replica," continue the father after the scoop of ice cream is served.

For two straight day and two straight night, the maestro work on the design and the layout and testing the best material for making his dream of immortality to materialized.

And in last nine hours of those two long night, a shape of a dashingly handsome, muscular and very smart looking man - sitting with and arm supporting his head as if he is deep in thoughts thinking about thoughts.

And for two months straight the maestro melt, mold, braze, polishing, refining and carve the statue using the finest of the finest bronze ore.

"And finally, there it stood, magnificently and shining gloriuosly under the midday sun," said the father to his son.

Now what is left for the meastro is to find a location as grand as his creation for it to reign and rule the awe of the people who saw it.

After a very long pondering moment, he decided that this creation of his will be placed at the gates of a wizards' throve.

The reasoning for this is, it is a mecca for the lords and ladies of the town. A haven for those who have only a gown. A paradise for those who do not want to be a clown.

So, with great trouble and even greater difficulty, he hoist with great heaves the poet,"and of course he had some help there," explained the father to his son,"and carriage it to the wizard's castle right in the middle of the capital of the country we he lived."

With great care, and even greater love, he place it midway trough the pavement that leads from the golden gates to the great doors of the wizard's castle.

"All is done in one long cold night," said the father.

When the morning sun of the next day rose to take the place of the night moon, and when the sun's first ray of light hits The Poet, the whole of the country was graced with a wonderful awe.

The reflected ray showered them with golden light making them deliciuosly blinded.

And when delicious blindness seeps from their eyes, the town folks - from the lords to the ladies to the paupers and the preachers to the behave and the delinquents to the saint and the sinners to the dumb and the learned, found themself standing motionlessly in looking in awe at an awesome sight.

As if a golden god has descended from the sky, The Poet become the only sight of their eyes.

All felt as if they were in the presence of a diety king.

Not realising that at the foot of The Poet lay almost lifeless the maestro.

If only The Poet can shed tears, only then, all of them would realise the sadness that harbour in his bronze chest.

And there sat The Poet in front of what have become the gates of hell for him since that day where his creator has fallen.

And there he sat reminiscing with great sorrow that he would be there and not with the hands that created him with great love and care.

And there he sat from that moment to this day when a father, who, in a time not so long is a sweet little son who at the same spot first learned of the tales of The Poet who sat at the Gates of Hell told by his father, stood looking lovingly at the son that resembles the likeness in his looks and behaviour when he is of his age.

"And amidst the silence of the town folks who stood in awe, told my father to me," said the father to the grandson of his father,"the maestro whispered to The Poet..." he continued while lifting his son and bringing his face closer to him.

Be sad you not, my son,

even as I go as silent and forgetfull as the rays of the sun,

in you I live and forever I will run,

or even when my corpse will fed the worms of a nun,

trough your eyes I will make a filling bun,

and even if my name fade from the tombstone it is carved,

it will be remembered in the names that you will love,

and even when my wooden crescent cross is lost,

in your palms hells' fury will frost,

and even if my grave is step by those who walked above,

in you chest I stand proud and filled with love,

and when the shrubs shies me from the sun,

I am always proud of you my son.

And the father like his father before him concluded the tale with a kiss on the forehead of his son.

- FYI -
The Poet who sat at the Gates of Hell - The Thinker statue at Musée Rodin, Paris; a shallow intrepertation of mine.

- ended till another end -

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oo(O)oo

In another time,

another tale will come.

maybe,

of the things the Demon saw as a Slave to a Slave.

But for now,

the Demon would only want to rest.

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oo(O)oo

_______THANK YOU_______

_______O_______